Feeling so Mean I Could Shoot a Man Just for Snoring

We’re finally going to install living room curtains so our neighbors in the apartment building across the street can’t stare into our exciting lives Rear Window style like we do into theirs. I was sitting with my legs crossed Indian style in the library stacks, rooting through a pile of decorating books for inspiration when an older man attracted my attention. He was sitting at a carrel about 10 feet away from my spot, sucking on his dentures as he gazed contemplatively out the window. He was making this horrible, wet smack in slow, maddeningly predictable intervals, like a smoke detector or Chinese Water Torture. While I was giving him the stink eye a teenage girl joined me in the aisle and began sniffling incessantly. As they battled for aural supremacy around me I wondered why some times I'm astoundingly oblivious to noise and the goings-on about me, while other times I unwillingly hone in on random ambient sounds with the laser beam focus of an autistic. The situation made me greatly sympathize with John Wesley Hardin, the Texas outlaw immortalized in those old Time Life commercials as “so mean he once shot a man once just for snoring.”

I know that we all do things to irritate each other, so I shouldn’t judge. In a memorable scene in I, Claudius, Caligula scolds his nephew for his constant coughing. His nephew insolently replies that he can’t help it - he’s sick. His coughing continues, infuriating Caligula. The next day or so Claudius greets Caligula in a hallway and asks where his nephew is. Caligula casually mentions that he has found a cure for his nephew’s cough. He snaps his fingers and a guard brings out the nephew’s head.

That’s what inbreeding? lead pipes? absolute power? meningitis? life long paranoia? will do to you. Actually, the paranoia was well deserved. Caligula's father died under suspicious circumstances, his mother was exiled and starved herself to death, another brother was thrown into a dungeon and resorted to eating the stuffing from his mattress before starving to death, etc.

And by the way, if you ever want to see England’s finest Shakespearean actors torture, murder, participate in orgies and engage in all sorts of other intrigue, decadence and vice, then watch the amazing BBC miniseries I, Claudius.

Robert Graves, the author of the books upon which the series is based, relied heavily on Suetonius’s 12 Caesars. Seutonius definitely had a political axe to grind, so I’m hoping he fabricated or at least exaggerated the cruelity, depravity and perversions of Imperial Rome. Although I was raised Episcopalian, I’ve never grasped the appeal of Christianity (I consider myself more of an ethnic Episcopalian than practicing Episcopalian) but I can see how it was an understandable reaction to the behavior going on at the time, if it truly was that bad. When I toured the catacombs of Rome, favorite hiding and gathering places of early Christians, I envisioned the Christians as termites drilling and eating out the city's foundation. Down in the dank catacombs, E pretended to be the Orkin Man. "Yeah, Emperor. You've got quite an infestation here. This is going to cost ya'."

In I, Claudius, Caligula’s antics include:

• Marrying his sister, impregnating her, cutting out their fetus (Wow - a caesarian from a Caesarian) and eating it because he believed he, as the incarnation of Cronus, should.

• Auctioning off the wives of high ranking Senate members during orgies.

• Appointing his horse Incitatus senator

• Diverting troops from the poorly guarded Northern territories to engage in a mock battle against the Neptune, and ordering them to gather up the shells on the seashore as spoils of war.

• Torturing slaves and executing political enemies, always in plentiful supply due to continuous purges, as his dinner entertainment.

As horribly as the Romans behaved, some sure knew how to die with admirable dignity. When traitorous Praetorian guards pull out their swords to assassinate Caligula's wife, Caesonia, she sneers at them as if they are incompetent serving girls. “Don't make a mess of it," she commands them.

Fun fact: Tony Soprano’s mother is named Livia, a tip of the hat to Claudius’ scheming, vicious grandmother in I, Claudius.

If I, Claudius isn't louche and hard core enough for you, then there's always Bob Guccione's Caligula, which is also lousy with fine British actors, including one of my favorites, Helen Mirren, who plays Caesonia. No matter what role is I see her in I always think of Caligula's sister's aghast reaction when Caligula informs her that he wants to marry Caesonia. "Caesonia? But she's the most promiscuous woman in Rome!"

Spies and Men on the Make Everywhere

From our suggestion forms...

On Tuesday so I noticed a motherly type casing the place. Dresses like she has money. She looked like she was in her 50s, and very petite, no bigger than a size 2. No facial markings at all even though I looked quite closely at her for anything distinguishing. Her face is remarkably flat from the side, though. Plain bobby type hair cut – very stylish. A very distinct crown on the back of her head. It starts from the center and slants to the right. A forceps birth?

Then the next day I noticed a group of young people probably under 30 trying to take a picture of the map on the west side entrance. Why would someone take a picture of the map? To have a blueprint of the place of course!!!

They probably have this revenge idea to set the world right or finally get it their way. Some messed up way of never forgetting their still not home. No more Pearl Harbors.

Next

For the past month or so there have been countless males who sit down beside me and act like I show up here to meet them. It is annoying. Help to alleviate this delimma for me.

I had to stop reading this one because I felt myself starting to get sucked in and agreeing with it, just like I did when I read Kaczynski's manifesto.

Churches taking six hundred years to build in Europe dot the countryside. The clergy of these churches recommended to sovereigns to kill people in order to meet the commands of the church. They relied upon power and not love to control the peoples of their churches. The churches here have united into the NCC to exercise their power and not love within mankind. Churches are of man and the churches have convinced man they are bad by spending their money. Ministers are not needed in God's churches, only advisors. Let the money be in the hands of the church attendants for their families and good uses. A tall church is only a monument.
You have doctors raping women after surgery, operating and removing wrong limbs and body parts. They falsify reports to government programs to get more of their god, money. They pool their money and pay ambulance drivers to bring a profiled patient to them. When the patient arrives they use and Intern to do the surgery and he connects the man's veins as a plumber. The leg atrophies until it turns black. They feed the man pills until he cannot hold his head up and he slobbers. The man asks to be removed from the pills, his head regains control, his slobbering ended! Now he finds, his kidneys were destroyed by the pills! He is now on dialysis for the rest of his life!
Governments have allowed chemical companies to add chloramine (nitrogen and two hydrogen atoms) to replace the cancer causing chlorine. Now a statistical number of humans will lose the function of their kidneys and be put on dialysis machines, the company producing the chloramine also produces the chemicals for the dialysis machines. Airplane contrails in the sky show chemicals that drop down upon the populace!
The RJ Reynolds Company added leaves to their cigarettes to entrap more on these cancer causing weeds. The lungs of man have sacks that purify the blood as it passes. Smoking a cigarette is carrying your own polluted air along with you. This impure air generator will be later be replaced with a cylinder of oxygen to help survive the emphysema Drag that cylinder around like Jacob Mawley's chains in Dickens Christmas Story.
The optical people want to sell you glasses every two years! No one tells you that your eyes have muscles that need to be exercised just like any muscle. More of their god, money is earned if you buy every two years!
The farmers of the Midwest created a corn oil to feed to their cattle and pigs. A problem occurred where the animals started having heart attacks! So as not to lose money on the deal, they went to industry and announced with great fanfare, Mazola Oil! Now humans had the heart attacks! This oil creates plaque within the arteries. Then Linus Pauling. a Nobel Prize Laureate, told people to take a lot of vitamin "C" to fight colds. Two things happened, the vitamin "C" cleans the arteries out and leeches calcium from the body. So men were getting heart attacks from the plague blocking the heart valves and creating bone spurs in addition!

Spies and Men on the Make Everywhere

From our suggestion forms...

On Tuesday so I noticed a motherly type casing the place. Dresses like she has money. She looked like she was in her 50s, and very petite, no bigger than a size 2. No facial markings at all even though I looked quite closely at her for anything distinguishing. Her face is remarkably flat from the side, though. Plain bobby type hair cut – very stylish. A very distinct crown on the back of her head. It starts from the center and slants to the right. A forceps birth?

Then the next day I noticed a group of young people probably under 30 trying to take a picture of the map on the west side entrance. Why would someone take a picture of the map? To have a blueprint of the place of course!!!

They probably have this revenge idea to set the world right or finally get it their way. Some messed up way of never forgetting their still not home. No more Pearl Harbors.

Next

For the past month or so there have been countless males who sit down beside me and act like I show up here to meet them. It is annoying. Help to alleviate this delimma for me.

I had to stop reading this one because I felt myself starting to get sucked in and agreeing with it, just like I did when I read Kaczynski's manifesto.

Churches taking six hundred years to build in Europe dot the countryside. The clergy of these churches recommended to sovereigns to kill people in order to meet the commands of the church. They relied upon power and not love to control the peoples of their churches. The churches here have united into the NCC to exercise their power and not love within mankind. Churches are of man and the churches have convinced man they are bad by spending their money. Ministers are not needed in God's churches, only advisors. Let the money be in the hands of the church attendants for their families and good uses. A tall church is only a monument.
You have doctors raping women after surgery, operating and removing wrong limbs and body parts. They falsify reports to government programs to get more of their god, money. They pool their money and pay ambulance drivers to bring a profiled patient to them. When the patient arrives they use and Intern to do the surgery and he connects the man's veins as a plumber. The leg atrophies until it turns black. They feed the man pills until he cannot hold his head up and he slobbers. The man asks to be removed from the pills, his head regains control, his slobbering ended! Now he finds, his kidneys were destroyed by the pills! He is now on dialysis for the rest of his life!
Governments have allowed chemical companies to add chloramine (nitrogen and two hydrogen atoms) to replace the cancer causing chlorine. Now a statistical number of humans will lose the function of their kidneys and be put on dialysis machines, the company producing the chloramine also produces the chemicals for the dialysis machines. Airplane contrails in the sky show chemicals that drop down upon the populace!
The RJ Reynolds Company added leaves to their cigarettes to entrap more on these cancer causing weeds. The lungs of man have sacks that purify the blood as it passes. Smoking a cigarette is carrying your own polluted air along with you. This impure air generator will be later be replaced with a cylinder of oxygen to help survive the emphysema Drag that cylinder around like Jacob Mawley's chains in Dickens Christmas Story.
The optical people want to sell you glasses every two years! No one tells you that your eyes have muscles that need to be exercised just like any muscle. More of their god, money is earned if you buy every two years!
The farmers of the Midwest created a corn oil to feed to their cattle and pigs. A problem occurred where the animals started having heart attacks! So as not to lose money on the deal, they went to industry and announced with great fanfare, Mazola Oil! Now humans had the heart attacks! This oil creates plaque within the arteries. Then Linus Pauling. a Nobel Prize Laureate, told people to take a lot of vitamin "C" to fight colds. Two things happened, the vitamin "C" cleans the arteries out and leeches calcium from the body. So men were getting heart attacks from the plague blocking the heart valves and creating bone spurs in addition!

The Most Dangerous Game

The other days I was rooting around in a thrift store and found one of those old anthologies of literature used in high school English. It was only $.50, so I bought it. I’m glad I did, because the anthology contains one of my all time favorite short stories, The Most Dangerous Game. Even though the story has been dismissed as pulp adventure fiction, it is a thrilling ‘gateway’ story that started me and many others on the road to a lifelong reading addiction.

The story is about an American big game hunter named Rainsford who falls overboard a ship headed toward South America. He washes ashore on an island which is inhabited by a mysterious nobleman named General Zoraff. The General treats him as an honored guest, but during their lavish meal, served on the finest linen and china, the General confesses how bored with hunting animals. Since animals rely solely on instinct, they are no match for him, a man who can reason. Because he has tired of hunting animals, he now uses shipwrecked sailors as his quarry, who are much more challenging, dangerous and rewarding to hunt. When Rainsford refuses to join him in the hunt, Zaroff decides to hunt him instead.

As I read the story it dawned on me that Thomas Harris based his character Hannibal Lecter on Zoraff.

Similarities:
They’re both displaced Old World nobility.
Hannibal was a Lithuanian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate.
General Zaroff is a Russian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate. He emigrated after the Russian Revolution.

They’re both refined and cultured. They’re extremely eloquent and connoisseurs of art, food and wine. They are educated, sophisticated men who possess a formal manner, which is primarily what makes them so chillingly monstrous. After Zoraff believes he killed the protagonist, “he sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.”

They both read Marcus Aurelius.

They believe that their victims are not worthy to live. Hannibal kills his patient Raspail, a flautist in the Baltimore Symphony, because of his inferior musicianship. Hannibal felt Raspail’s flute playing was ruining his enjoyment of the symphony, and besides, “his therapy was going nowhere.” In Hannibal, Barney explains to Clarice, "He told me once that, whenever it was `feasible,' he preferred to eat the rude. `Free-range rude,' he called them.”
Zoraff justifies his hunting because his quarry is “the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships, lacars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels - a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them.”

They are charming, considerate hosts with impeccable manners - except for the killing part. When Miggs flicks his semen on Clarice, Hannibal Lecter is horrified and exclaims, “I would not have this happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.” (Although cannibalism, by his standards, is not.)

It’s interesting to see these connections and discovering them make it less intimidating for me, a tyro writer, that authors often don’t invent characters whole cloth. Margaret Mitchell based Scarlett O’Hara on Becky Sharpe of Vanity Fair and her grandmother, and most of Gone with the Wind was just reworked family stories. And don't get me started on Jay McInhenry. Anyway, I've added my theory to the Wikipedia entry for Hannibal Lecter, and we'll see if it's reverted or not.

The Most Dangerous Game

The other days I was rooting around in a thrift store and found one of those old anthologies of literature used in high school English. It was only $.50, so I bought it. I’m glad I did, because the anthology contains one of my all time favorite short stories, The Most Dangerous Game. Even though the story has been dismissed as pulp adventure fiction, it is a thrilling ‘gateway’ story that started me and many others on the road to a lifelong reading addiction.

The story is about an American big game hunter named Rainsford who falls overboard a ship headed toward South America. He washes ashore on an island which is inhabited by a mysterious nobleman named General Zoraff. The General treats him as an honored guest, but during their lavish meal, served on the finest linen and china, the General confesses how bored with hunting animals. Since animals rely solely on instinct, they are no match for him, a man who can reason. Because he has tired of hunting animals, he now uses shipwrecked sailors as his quarry, who are much more challenging, dangerous and rewarding to hunt. When Rainsford refuses to join him in the hunt, Zaroff decides to hunt him instead.

As I read the story it dawned on me that Thomas Harris based his character Hannibal Lecter on Zoraff.

Similarities:
They’re both displaced Old World nobility.
Hannibal was a Lithuanian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate.
General Zaroff is a Russian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate. He emigrated after the Russian Revolution.

They’re both refined and cultured. They’re extremely eloquent and connoisseurs of art, food and wine. They are educated, sophisticated men who possess a formal manner, which is primarily what makes them so chillingly monstrous. After Zoraff believes he killed the protagonist, “he sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.”

They both read Marcus Aurelius.

They believe that their victims are not worthy to live. Hannibal kills his patient Raspail, a flautist in the Baltimore Symphony, because of his inferior musicianship. Hannibal felt Raspail’s flute playing was ruining his enjoyment of the symphony, and besides, “his therapy was going nowhere.” In Hannibal, Barney explains to Clarice, "He told me once that, whenever it was `feasible,' he preferred to eat the rude. `Free-range rude,' he called them.”
Zoraff justifies his hunting because his quarry is “the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships, lacars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels - a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them.”

They are charming, considerate hosts with impeccable manners - except for the killing part. When Miggs flicks his semen on Clarice, Hannibal Lecter is horrified and exclaims, “I would not have this happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.” (Although cannibalism, by his standards, is not.)

It’s interesting to see these connections and discovering them make it less intimidating for me, a tyro writer, that authors often don’t invent characters whole cloth. Margaret Mitchell based Scarlett O’Hara on Becky Sharpe of Vanity Fair and her grandmother, and most of Gone with the Wind was just reworked family stories. And don't get me started on Jay McInhenry. Anyway, I've added my theory to the Wikipedia entry for Hannibal Lecter, and we'll see if it's reverted or not.

But I Live in a Nice Neighborhood, Damnit!

While I was on the reference desk I saw a German tourist couple approach one of our regular patrons to ask for directions to a museum. In classic German tourist style, they had identical cropped haircuts and matching fanny packs. The only sexual dimorphism in regards to dress was the male’s sandals and black socks pulled up to his mid-calf. The particular patron looks like an intense, New York intellectual but actually has the mind of a child, although he occassionaly makes some remarkably astute comments to me. My guess would be that he’s bipolar schizophrenic. When he is off his medication he becomes an excitable nuisance, and unfortunately for these Teutonic tourists, this was just such a time.

He began giving them directions, and pointing his arms wildly around to indicate the museum, but then he lost his train of thought and launched into a convoluted story about a soccer match he had been in years before.

“And then I was fullback but the coach sent us way, way up the line. It was much to high up the field! And then the wing on my team, he was this crazy Lebanese guy, he told me that I had to get back. But my coach had told me to go forward! And then the ball was coming toward me, but there was this group of defenders headed right toward me, and it was unbelievable. I then got the ball and ran with it, and then passed it to the Lebanese forward.”

He became increasingly agitated and frequently overcome by giggling. The tourists went from listening intently, trying to make out his words, to confusion, to dawning realization, to a pained, trapped look. They continued listening politely until I waved them over to the desk.

After I had given them the directions and sent them on their way, the patron came to the desk and started repeating the same soccer story to me verbatim. Usually I'm entranced by the speech of schizophrenics. The hair on the back of my neck rises up and I get goose bumps. I am riveted by their schizophrenic flourishes and bizarre flights of fancy. But sports stories are so tediously boring to me me, I can't even abide them from a raving schizophrenic. Aside from the crumbling infrastructure, this is why it would be my nightmare to live in Cuba. Supposedly Castro takes over the radio waves for hours reminiscing about his days as a baseball player, torturing his people with rambling, longwinded stories of his glory days. As I have said before, I suspect this is many an old garrulous man's fantasy, to hold an entire nation captive for this purpose.

On the homefront... Outside of our window this morning on the sidewalk we could see a bum brazenly passed out, face up, lying comfortably in the sun. He awoke, stuck his hand down the front of his pants, and gave himself a nice, leisurely scratch. He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a tin of Altoids and popped one in his mouth - to get ready for a hot date, I suppose? Some idiot do-gooder had placed a Venti Starbucks next to him. He appeared like he was going to spend the rest of the day there basking himself, but Pam and Fisher were home watching the World Cup and called the cops.

But I Live in a Nice Neighborhood, Damnit!

While I was on the reference desk I saw a German tourist couple approach one of our regular patrons to ask for directions to a museum. In classic German tourist style, they had identical cropped haircuts and matching fanny packs. The only sexual dimorphism in regards to dress was the male’s sandals and black socks pulled up to his mid-calf. The particular patron looks like an intense, New York intellectual but actually has the mind of a child, although he occassionaly makes some remarkably astute comments to me. My guess would be that he’s bipolar schizophrenic. When he is off his medication he becomes an excitable nuisance, and unfortunately for these Teutonic tourists, this was just such a time.

He began giving them directions, and pointing his arms wildly around to indicate the museum, but then he lost his train of thought and launched into a convoluted story about a soccer match he had been in years before.

“And then I was fullback but the coach sent us way, way up the line. It was much to high up the field! And then the wing on my team, he was this crazy Lebanese guy, he told me that I had to get back. But my coach had told me to go forward! And then the ball was coming toward me, but there was this group of defenders headed right toward me, and it was unbelievable. I then got the ball and ran with it, and then passed it to the Lebanese forward.”

He became increasingly agitated and frequently overcome by giggling. The tourists went from listening intently, trying to make out his words, to confusion, to dawning realization, to a pained, trapped look. They continued listening politely until I waved them over to the desk.

After I had given them the directions and sent them on their way, the patron came to the desk and started repeating the same soccer story to me verbatim. Usually I'm entranced by the speech of schizophrenics. The hair on the back of my neck rises up and I get goose bumps. I am riveted by their schizophrenic flourishes and bizarre flights of fancy. But sports stories are so tediously boring to me me, I can't even abide them from a raving schizophrenic. Aside from the crumbling infrastructure, this is why it would be my nightmare to live in Cuba. Supposedly Castro takes over the radio waves for hours reminiscing about his days as a baseball player, torturing his people with rambling, longwinded stories of his glory days. As I have said before, I suspect this is many an old garrulous man's fantasy, to hold an entire nation captive for this purpose.

On the homefront... Outside of our window this morning on the sidewalk we could see a bum brazenly passed out, face up, lying comfortably in the sun. He awoke, stuck his hand down the front of his pants, and gave himself a nice, leisurely scratch. He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a tin of Altoids and popped one in his mouth - to get ready for a hot date, I suppose? Some idiot do-gooder had placed a Venti Starbucks next to him. He appeared like he was going to spend the rest of the day there basking himself, but Pam and Fisher were home watching the World Cup and called the cops.

From the Library

A woman who sounded loaded called and wanted to know if we had Deepak Chopra's Overcoming Addictions. It was 10:00 in the morning.

A disheveled, wide-eyed woman ran up to the desk and shrieked, “Someone poured acid on my lips! There's a woman trying to kill me in the library. My lips! They’re buuuuurning!” She clutched the edge of the desk and rocked her body back and forth. My colleague, not even glancing up from some papers he was reading, nonchalantly raised his hand and pointed toward the security office. “Ma’am, you'll need to tell security.” She staggered off in that direction. Oddly enough, the woman did have chapped, ruined lips, but my bet would be more the result from an overheated glass crack pipe than from an acid wielding assailant.

“I've got to read some Scientology. But I can't read. They won't let me use the tape recorders because I don't have a library card. Isn't that a violation of my civil rights?”

A bag lady dragging her belongings in trash bags set them down by the desk. After rooting around in them for a minute, she pulled a grimy bundle of papers. “I have here a list of 150 names of celebrities, religious and, political figures. You find me their addresses.”
“You’ll need to go to the business desk. They have directories and they’ll show you how to look the names and addresses up.”
“I don’t want to have to go to another desk! You find them for me.”
“I’m sorry, but this is just a basic information desk.” He pointed to the line that was forming behind her. “I don’t have time to help you with such an involved project, but the librarians upstairs will. You’ll need to go to that department.”
She whipped around, balled her fists and began screaming, "He's refusing me service! He's refusing me service!”

An aging belle floated toward the desk. She was wearing a low cut diaphanous, pastel dress and looked like she had just stepped out of some Southern Gothic flashback. Tragically, her mind seemed as ravaged as her décolletage. She shared some décor suggestions. “This would be a perfect spot for a fountain or waterfall, right in the center of the foyer area. I think that it would give the entire place - which is rather cold and institutional, don’t you agree? - an everglade jungle appeal. A wishing well would be another idea for a tourist attraction and would give this place a nice, overall tropical jungle look. Yes, that would make it quite a field trip attraction. I also think formal high teas in the cafeteria would be a real draw, that they would bring in a more elevated crowd. Then if you would throw in a tropical rain setting with lots of greenery, plants and shrubbery, large, exotic flowers like a botanical garden, some piped in music tapes of birds singing, water and other relaxing sorts of noises, or just music piped in over the loudspeakers to add to the overall ambiance… Well, I think it would make this place so lovely, don’t you agree?”

A woman called, “What is all of the blood spilled in Iraq doing to the earth there?”
I’m not sure if this was a rhetorical question, if she was just calling to make some sort of political point, and was trying to drag us into a discussion, but I almost told her that I imagine that all that blood would be fertilizing the earth. especially if it's mixed with all of the nitrogen IED's, which probably by now is now enough to return that desert to the conditions when it was known as the Fertile Crescent. I had always heard that the blood soaked fields of Verdun and Shiloh produced bumper crops for years after battles were fought there. Confusing the matter, however, was that the patron had a thick Romanian accent, which made me think - vampire? My colleague transferred her to the science desk.

From the Library

A woman who sounded loaded called and wanted to know if we had Deepak Chopra's Overcoming Addictions. It was 10:00 in the morning.

A disheveled, wide-eyed woman ran up to the desk and shrieked, “Someone poured acid on my lips! There's a woman trying to kill me in the library. My lips! They’re buuuuurning!” She clutched the edge of the desk and rocked her body back and forth. My colleague, not even glancing up from some papers he was reading, nonchalantly raised his hand and pointed toward the security office. “Ma’am, you'll need to tell security.” She staggered off in that direction. Oddly enough, the woman did have chapped, ruined lips, but my bet would be more the result from an overheated glass crack pipe than from an acid wielding assailant.

“I've got to read some Scientology. But I can't read. They won't let me use the tape recorders because I don't have a library card. Isn't that a violation of my civil rights?”

A bag lady dragging her belongings in trash bags set them down by the desk. After rooting around in them for a minute, she pulled a grimy bundle of papers. “I have here a list of 150 names of celebrities, religious and, political figures. You find me their addresses.”
“You’ll need to go to the business desk. They have directories and they’ll show you how to look the names and addresses up.”
“I don’t want to have to go to another desk! You find them for me.”
“I’m sorry, but this is just a basic information desk.” He pointed to the line that was forming behind her. “I don’t have time to help you with such an involved project, but the librarians upstairs will. You’ll need to go to that department.”
She whipped around, balled her fists and began screaming, "He's refusing me service! He's refusing me service!”

An aging belle floated toward the desk. She was wearing a low cut diaphanous, pastel dress and looked like she had just stepped out of some Southern Gothic flashback. Tragically, her mind seemed as ravaged as her décolletage. She shared some décor suggestions. “This would be a perfect spot for a fountain or waterfall, right in the center of the foyer area. I think that it would give the entire place - which is rather cold and institutional, don’t you agree? - an everglade jungle appeal. A wishing well would be another idea for a tourist attraction and would give this place a nice, overall tropical jungle look. Yes, that would make it quite a field trip attraction. I also think formal high teas in the cafeteria would be a real draw, that they would bring in a more elevated crowd. Then if you would throw in a tropical rain setting with lots of greenery, plants and shrubbery, large, exotic flowers like a botanical garden, some piped in music tapes of birds singing, water and other relaxing sorts of noises, or just music piped in over the loudspeakers to add to the overall ambiance… Well, I think it would make this place so lovely, don’t you agree?”

A woman called, “What is all of the blood spilled in Iraq doing to the earth there?”
I’m not sure if this was a rhetorical question, if she was just calling to make some sort of political point, and was trying to drag us into a discussion, but I almost told her that I imagine that all that blood would be fertilizing the earth. especially if it's mixed with all of the nitrogen IED's, which probably by now is now enough to return that desert to the conditions when it was known as the Fertile Crescent. I had always heard that the blood soaked fields of Verdun and Shiloh produced bumper crops for years after battles were fought there. Confusing the matter, however, was that the patron had a thick Romanian accent, which made me think - vampire? My colleague transferred her to the science desk.

Brother, can you Spare 60 wpm

The other day while I was at the reference desk a man asked if I could type a short letter for him. He looked like a hard luck case and it was slow at the desk so I agreed, although I told him that this was an extraordinary, one-time exception and that if he told anyone I would deny having performed this service for him. If word got out that the librarians were transcribing or taking dictation then every patron with a manifesto, 20 page rambling letter to estranged family, social security disability plea, resume or neighborhood bulletin warning about CIA brain monitoring* would storm the desk, papers in hand, demanding equal treatment. Those kind of favors always bite you in the ass. If my colleagues discovered that I had started this precedent, one of them would probably slip up behind me in my cubicle and slit my throat, Colombian narco-execution style. I can’t say that I would blame them.

The patron was gratifyingly appreciative, and promised to maintain his silence. The next day while I was clear across town for a dentist’s appointment the same patron approached me and asked me for spare change in a suspiciously aggressive manner. Not to sound like a melodramatic paranoid, but I think he may have been considering mugging me. I was out of context so he didn’t recognize me until I said hello, and then we both had a good laugh. I was glad that he remembered my kindness, especially if it stopped him from taking my wallet.

Even though I live in one of the largest cities in the United States I find that I run into people I know with eerie, improbable regularity. One day when I was working at my old branch I helped a girl fresh from a Midwestern backwater figure out which buses she needed to take to get to her interview. Two days later, in a neighborhood miles away, the same girl, not recognizing me at first, came up to me and asked me what bus she should take to get to another part of the city. I wonder if she thought that I had materialized like some bus schedule guardian angel, or something more sinister, like she was in some sort of Truman Show situation.

*All items I have been asked to type while I was on the reference desk

Brother, can you Spare 60 wpm

The other day while I was at the reference desk a man asked if I could type a short letter for him. He looked like a hard luck case and it was slow at the desk so I agreed, although I told him that this was an extraordinary, one-time exception and that if he told anyone I would deny having performed this service for him. If word got out that the librarians were transcribing or taking dictation then every patron with a manifesto, 20 page rambling letter to estranged family, social security disability plea, resume or neighborhood bulletin warning about CIA brain monitoring* would storm the desk, papers in hand, demanding equal treatment. Those kind of favors always bite you in the ass. If my colleagues discovered that I had started this precedent, one of them would probably slip up behind me in my cubicle and slit my throat, Colombian narco-execution style. I can’t say that I would blame them.

The patron was gratifyingly appreciative, and promised to maintain his silence. The next day while I was clear across town for a dentist’s appointment the same patron approached me and asked me for spare change in a suspiciously aggressive manner. Not to sound like a melodramatic paranoid, but I think he may have been considering mugging me. I was out of context so he didn’t recognize me until I said hello, and then we both had a good laugh. I was glad that he remembered my kindness, especially if it stopped him from taking my wallet.

Even though I live in one of the largest cities in the United States I find that I run into people I know with eerie, improbable regularity. One day when I was working at my old branch I helped a girl fresh from a Midwestern backwater figure out which buses she needed to take to get to her interview. Two days later, in a neighborhood miles away, the same girl, not recognizing me at first, came up to me and asked me what bus she should take to get to another part of the city. I wonder if she thought that I had materialized like some bus schedule guardian angel, or something more sinister, like she was in some sort of Truman Show situation.

*All items I have been asked to type while I was on the reference desk

Mexican Standoff

E captured the dogs in a deadlock over a toy. The two photographs, although they look identical, were actually taken 30 minutes apart. On this particular occasion the dogs remained at an eerily silent standstill for over an hour, as delicately and precisely balanced together as pieces of a Calder mobile. At various times one would doze off, but even so his or her jaws remained locked down on the plastic Nylabone with the tenacity and pounds per square inch force of a gila monster.

This is a deadly serious situation, because the dog that wins this toy tug of war wins dominancy, which is why you’re never, ever supposed to play tug-of-war with your dog, (and if you do, you better make sure you win.) As Billy (the smaller Jack Russell) got older the battle for alpha supremacy between Sid and Billy progressed from cute sibling rivalry to a bloody internecine war, and eventually Sid had to be re-homed in New York City with E’s brother and his wife.

We got Billy with the best of intentions, really we did. We figured that although the brothers would be from different litters they would, sharing the same bloodline, soon become best friends. Little did we know that in the case of Billy’s litter there was tragic kennel mix-up, resulting in Lemon (Sid and Billy’s dam) accidentally being bred to a demon.

Mexican Standoff

E captured the dogs in a deadlock over a toy. The two photographs, although they look identical, were actually taken 30 minutes apart. On this particular occasion the dogs remained at an eerily silent standstill for over an hour, as delicately and precisely balanced together as pieces of a Calder mobile. At various times one would doze off, but even so his or her jaws remained locked down on the plastic Nylabone with the tenacity and pounds per square inch force of a gila monster.

This is a deadly serious situation, because the dog that wins this toy tug of war wins dominancy, which is why you’re never, ever supposed to play tug-of-war with your dog, (and if you do, you better make sure you win.) As Billy (the smaller Jack Russell) got older the battle for alpha supremacy between Sid and Billy progressed from cute sibling rivalry to a bloody internecine war, and eventually Sid had to be re-homed in New York City with E’s brother and his wife.

We got Billy with the best of intentions, really we did. We figured that although the brothers would be from different litters they would, sharing the same bloodline, soon become best friends. Little did we know that in the case of Billy’s litter there was tragic kennel mix-up, resulting in Lemon (Sid and Billy’s dam) accidentally being bred to a demon.

More White Fang, Please

I'm a sucker for things like this. Check out one of Spoonie's Border Terrier kin, Mitzi, as she attentively listens to this young reader. For more information, check out the website of the Intermountain Therapy Animals Foundation, the organization that started the progam.

More White Fang, Please

I'm a sucker for things like this. Check out one of Spoonie's Border Terrier kin, Mitzi, as she attentively listens to this young reader. For more information, check out the website of the Intermountain Therapy Animals Foundation, the organization that started the progam.

All I Need is One More Sign, Lord

A slightly bedraggled woman approached the desk and mumbled something about needing a phone number. “I called information, and they gave me a fax number.”
“I can help you with a number. What number do you need?”
“I need a number to the Crisis Center.”
“There are a couple of crisis centers. Which one would you like?” I showed her a list which included support centers for runaways, victims of domestic violence and rape, and various addictions.
“I need the Suicide Crisis Center.”

How nice that telephone information gave her a fax machine number so that she got a shrieking fax machine on the line instead of a sympathetic counselor. Or perhaps, in her despondency, she copied the number down incorrectly. In any case, I’m glad that that wasn’t the final straw and that she was willing to try to find the right number.

All I Need is One More Sign, Lord

A slightly bedraggled woman approached the desk and mumbled something about needing a phone number. “I called information, and they gave me a fax number.”
“I can help you with a number. What number do you need?”
“I need a number to the Crisis Center.”
“There are a couple of crisis centers. Which one would you like?” I showed her a list which included support centers for runaways, victims of domestic violence and rape, and various addictions.
“I need the Suicide Crisis Center.”

How nice that telephone information gave her a fax machine number so that she got a shrieking fax machine on the line instead of a sympathetic counselor. Or perhaps, in her despondency, she copied the number down incorrectly. In any case, I’m glad that that wasn’t the final straw and that she was willing to try to find the right number.

Devil in the Altarpiece

My favorite piece of artwork is the Isenheim Altarpiece. When we were in Germany for a wedding about 5 years ago I insisted on driving a heart pounding, 6 hour Autobahn death ride detour to see it in person in Colmar, France. Art history books and these pixelated images don’t do justice to its breathtaking scale and its searing, bright colors. When I finally saw it, I stood before it, swaying and slack jawed, for hours. The polyptych depicts the life of Christ and the temptation of St Anthony. It was commissioned in 1515 for an Anotine monastery that also served as a skin ailment hospital. Many of the patients treated there suffered from St Anthony’s Fire, also known as ergotism, an affliction brought about from eating bread made from rye contaminated with the fungus ergot. In its latter and most serious stages, ergotism could cause severe hallucinations and open sores which quickly turned gangrenous. Amputation was often the only treatment, and its victims suffered excruciatingly. The work was to remind them of the life of Christ and how he, too, suffered but was resurrected in pain free glory. The beauty was to take the patients’ mind off their agony as they writhed on their pallets. The paintings, which range from horrifying grotesque to exquisitely beautiful, are almost hallucinatory, like a fever vision.







The most intriguing panel depicts a concert of angels, who have all struck up a chord to celebrate the birth of Christ. But who is this odd, enigmatic feathered figure with the strange green hue? And why is he looking off quizzically in the wrong direction, away from the Nativity (on the panel to the right), his mouth slightly open in bafflement? Art historians believe he is the devil, the beautiful fallen angel. He is missing out on the action because, through his own actions, he has been cut off from the glory of God forever, and doesn’t recognize Christ because he has taken human form. The comb on his head is a peacock’s comb, signifying pride. Why he is feathered is anyone’s guess, but representing the devil in this fashion was unprecedented. I’m also intrigued by his strange, spindly, bejeweled fingers at the bow and on the strings, which play the instrument at physiologically impossible angles. He was the most beautiful of angels but now that he is corrupted he has turned a sickly shade of green exactly that of gangrene. He also seems to be developing a wattle.









Gangrene Christ

The altarpiece's most famous panel is the one depicting the crucifixion of Christ, and what a nauseating, awful vision it is. Christ’s sore encrusted, scourged limbs are twisted in agony and his shoulders stretching and dislocating from the weight of his body. This portrayal pulls no punches. Take that, Mel Gibson! I think the message to those afflicted with ergotism is: So, you think you're in agony with your paltry skin disease? Well check out the son of God here! He was crucified, and all for your sins! So suck it up.














Psychedelic Jesus Christ, Super Star!

Here is the Resurrection panel and behold Jesus, unfettered and floating, healthy and golden, his skin alabaster and perfect except for nail punctures. He has felled and scattered all of the soldiers with his explosive radiance. I can’t believe how psychedelic the colors are in this panel. It looks like something out of Heavy Metal. This is the promise of the Resurrection, that the sufferer, like Jesus, will one day be restored clean and whole.

The Isenheim altarpiece has a fascinating history. It sank into obscurity in the 18th century, was nearly destroyed by fire, escaped the whitewash brush during the Reformation, was dismembered and hidden away during the Reign of Terror, nearly destroyed by Napolean and almost stolen by art hoarding Nazis. It now resides in Colmar, France at the Unterlinden Museum.

Devil in the Altarpiece

My favorite piece of artwork is the Isenheim Altarpiece. When we were in Germany for a wedding about 5 years ago I insisted on driving a heart pounding, 6 hour Autobahn death ride detour to see it in person in Colmar, France. Art history books and these pixelated images don’t do justice to its breathtaking scale and its searing, bright colors. When I finally saw it, I stood before it, swaying and slack jawed, for hours. The polyptych depicts the life of Christ and the temptation of St Anthony. It was commissioned in 1515 for an Anotine monastery that also served as a skin ailment hospital. Many of the patients treated there suffered from St Anthony’s Fire, also known as ergotism, an affliction brought about from eating bread made from rye contaminated with the fungus ergot. In its latter and most serious stages, ergotism could cause severe hallucinations and open sores which quickly turned gangrenous. Amputation was often the only treatment, and its victims suffered excruciatingly. The work was to remind them of the life of Christ and how he, too, suffered but was resurrected in pain free glory. The beauty was to take the patients’ mind off their agony as they writhed on their pallets. The paintings, which range from horrifying grotesque to exquisitely beautiful, are almost hallucinatory, like a fever vision.







The most intriguing panel depicts a concert of angels, who have all struck up a chord to celebrate the birth of Christ. But who is this odd, enigmatic feathered figure with the strange green hue? And why is he looking off quizzically in the wrong direction, away from the Nativity (on the panel to the right), his mouth slightly open in bafflement? Art historians believe he is the devil, the beautiful fallen angel. He is missing out on the action because, through his own actions, he has been cut off from the glory of God forever, and doesn’t recognize Christ because he has taken human form. The comb on his head is a peacock’s comb, signifying pride. Why he is feathered is anyone’s guess, but representing the devil in this fashion was unprecedented. I’m also intrigued by his strange, spindly, bejeweled fingers at the bow and on the strings, which play the instrument at physiologically impossible angles. He was the most beautiful of angels but now that he is corrupted he has turned a sickly shade of green exactly that of gangrene. He also seems to be developing a wattle.









Gangrene Christ

The altarpiece's most famous panel is the one depicting the crucifixion of Christ, and what a nauseating, awful vision it is. Christ’s sore encrusted, scourged limbs are twisted in agony and his shoulders stretching and dislocating from the weight of his body. This portrayal pulls no punches. Take that, Mel Gibson! I think the message to those afflicted with ergotism is: So, you think you're in agony with your paltry skin disease? Well check out the son of God here! He was crucified, and all for your sins! So suck it up.














Psychedelic Jesus Christ, Super Star!

Here is the Resurrection panel and behold Jesus, unfettered and floating, healthy and golden, his skin alabaster and perfect except for nail punctures. He has felled and scattered all of the soldiers with his explosive radiance. I can’t believe how psychedelic the colors are in this panel. It looks like something out of Heavy Metal. This is the promise of the Resurrection, that the sufferer, like Jesus, will one day be restored clean and whole.

The Isenheim altarpiece has a fascinating history. It sank into obscurity in the 18th century, was nearly destroyed by fire, escaped the whitewash brush during the Reformation, was dismembered and hidden away during the Reign of Terror, nearly destroyed by Napolean and almost stolen by art hoarding Nazis. It now resides in Colmar, France at the Unterlinden Museum.

Medieval Hygiene

The manner of living throughout the Middle Ages made general lousiness inevitable. In England, in the 12th and 13th centuries, the houses of the poor were mere hovels, often with only a hole in the roof to let out the smoke of the central fire; and in cold weather the families were huddled together at night without changing the simple garments – usually a single shift – which they wore in the daytime. Washing was practically out of the question, and the better classes – not very much more comfortable in their badly heated domiciles – wore a great many clothes, which they rarely changed. MacArthur’s story of Thomas a Becket’s funeral illustrates this:

The Archbishop was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral on the evening of the 29th of December. The body lay in the Cathedral all night, as was prepared for burial on the following day. The Archbishop was dressed in an extraordinary collection of clothes. He had on a large brown mantle; under it, a white surplice; below that, a lamb’s wool coat,; then another woolen coat; and a third woolen coat below this; under this, there was the black, cowled robe of the Benedictine Order; under this, a shirt; and next to the body a curious hair-cloth, covered with linen. As the body grew cold, the vermin that were living in this multiple covering started to crawl out, and, as MacArthur quotes the chronicler: 'The vermin boiled over like water in a simmering cauldron, and the onlookers burst into alternate weeping and laughter.'

From my favorite book of all time, Rats, Lice and History: A Bacteriologist's Class History of Mankind's Epic Struggle to Conquer the Scourge of Typhus

One of our pages reported a man waiting for a public computer who was casually picking lice off of his skin and flinging and flicking them around him indiscriminately, as if they were pieces of lint.

The guard who asked him to leave reported that his favorite lice story – and we all have one here at the library – happened a few years ago. Two rough, unkempt men asked to borrow a magnifying glass from the science desk. The librarian, curious, saw them examine something pinched between one of the men’s fingers, and then compare it to the page of an open book. One turned to the other, a look of satisfaction on his face, and said, “See, I told you it was lice!”

Before the miracle of Topspot I lived in Alabama with my Jack Russell terrier, Sid. Fleas there were impervious to baths and collars and other chemical poisons, so every morning I would use my fingers to comb through his coat searching for fleas. Upon capturing them I would pinch and rub them between by thumb and forefinger, and then, for good measure, drop them in a bowl of dish soap and water. The dish soap somehow prevented them from jumping back out, so I was ensured of them dying a watery, as well as fragrant, death. On his all white coat there was nowhere for fleas to hide, and I found grooming him a very relaxing, soothing, almost meditative task. When Sid was about a year old Topspot eliminated my need to do this, and, although I was overjoyed to be rid of the fleas, as I'm sure Sid was, I found myself missing our morning grooming ritual. Human beings are primates, after all, and monkeys spend a large portion of their day grooming each other, and seem to take great pleasure in doing so, grooming serving both a practical and social purpose. Some evolutionary biologists believe that gossiping is a verbal replacement for grooming.

Here is the complete picture of Bosch's Christ Carrying the Cross.

Medieval Hygiene

The manner of living throughout the Middle Ages made general lousiness inevitable. In England, in the 12th and 13th centuries, the houses of the poor were mere hovels, often with only a hole in the roof to let out the smoke of the central fire; and in cold weather the families were huddled together at night without changing the simple garments – usually a single shift – which they wore in the daytime. Washing was practically out of the question, and the better classes – not very much more comfortable in their badly heated domiciles – wore a great many clothes, which they rarely changed. MacArthur’s story of Thomas a Becket’s funeral illustrates this:

The Archbishop was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral on the evening of the 29th of December. The body lay in the Cathedral all night, as was prepared for burial on the following day. The Archbishop was dressed in an extraordinary collection of clothes. He had on a large brown mantle; under it, a white surplice; below that, a lamb’s wool coat,; then another woolen coat; and a third woolen coat below this; under this, there was the black, cowled robe of the Benedictine Order; under this, a shirt; and next to the body a curious hair-cloth, covered with linen. As the body grew cold, the vermin that were living in this multiple covering started to crawl out, and, as MacArthur quotes the chronicler: 'The vermin boiled over like water in a simmering cauldron, and the onlookers burst into alternate weeping and laughter.'

From my favorite book of all time, Rats, Lice and History: A Bacteriologist's Class History of Mankind's Epic Struggle to Conquer the Scourge of Typhus

One of our pages reported a man waiting for a public computer who was casually picking lice off of his skin and flinging and flicking them around him indiscriminately, as if they were pieces of lint.

The guard who asked him to leave reported that his favorite lice story – and we all have one here at the library – happened a few years ago. Two rough, unkempt men asked to borrow a magnifying glass from the science desk. The librarian, curious, saw them examine something pinched between one of the men’s fingers, and then compare it to the page of an open book. One turned to the other, a look of satisfaction on his face, and said, “See, I told you it was lice!”

Before the miracle of Topspot I lived in Alabama with my Jack Russell terrier, Sid. Fleas there were impervious to baths and collars and other chemical poisons, so every morning I would use my fingers to comb through his coat searching for fleas. Upon capturing them I would pinch and rub them between by thumb and forefinger, and then, for good measure, drop them in a bowl of dish soap and water. The dish soap somehow prevented them from jumping back out, so I was ensured of them dying a watery, as well as fragrant, death. On his all white coat there was nowhere for fleas to hide, and I found grooming him a very relaxing, soothing, almost meditative task. When Sid was about a year old Topspot eliminated my need to do this, and, although I was overjoyed to be rid of the fleas, as I'm sure Sid was, I found myself missing our morning grooming ritual. Human beings are primates, after all, and monkeys spend a large portion of their day grooming each other, and seem to take great pleasure in doing so, grooming serving both a practical and social purpose. Some evolutionary biologists believe that gossiping is a verbal replacement for grooming.

Here is the complete picture of Bosch's Christ Carrying the Cross.

Un Partido de Futbol

I noticed that I was getting a ton of traffic from people searching for the translated lyrics of the Guatemalan love song so exquisitely sung by Jane Lynch in the 40 Year Old Virgin. Lynch garbles the first line a bit, and takes some liberties with Spanish grammar, all of which really challenged my rusty Spanish. E finally had the brilliant idea of playing the DVD in dubbed Spanish, and we discovered that Lynch's Spanish dubber sang it much more clearly. Then, just for fun, E compared it to the French dubbed version, which was delivered by the French dubber in a hilariously sultry/smoky cabaret chanteuse sort of way. I would love to hear the German dubbed version, since each dubber can't seem to resist putting her cultural stamp on it.

Anyway, here are the Spanish lyrics.
Cuando limpiado mi cuarto
No encuentro nada
Adonde va con tanta prisa?
Al partido de futbol

Which roughly translates to:
When my room is cleaned
I can find nothing
Where are you going in such a hurry?
To a soccer game

Un Partido de Futbol

I noticed that I was getting a ton of traffic from people searching for the translated lyrics of the Guatemalan love song so exquisitely sung by Jane Lynch in the 40 Year Old Virgin. Lynch garbles the first line a bit, and takes some liberties with Spanish grammar, all of which really challenged my rusty Spanish. E finally had the brilliant idea of playing the DVD in dubbed Spanish, and we discovered that Lynch's Spanish dubber sang it much more clearly. Then, just for fun, E compared it to the French dubbed version, which was delivered by the French dubber in a hilariously sultry/smoky cabaret chanteuse sort of way. I would love to hear the German dubbed version, since each dubber can't seem to resist putting her cultural stamp on it.

Anyway, here are the Spanish lyrics.
Cuando limpiado mi cuarto
No encuentro nada
Adonde va con tanta prisa?
Al partido de futbol

Which roughly translates to:
When my room is cleaned
I can find nothing
Where are you going in such a hurry?
To a soccer game

Y'all Are Brutalizing Me!

I got a little homesick for Alabama today when an exquisite example of a dirtball - the Platonic Ideal, really - stomped up to the desk. He had a canary yellow dyed mullet and his belly was poking out of his cut off tank top like a child's. His woman, cowed, pale and skinny, waited silently about ten feet behind him. Her eyes were cast downward.

"I need these here videos," slapping some Creepshow videos on the counter, "that are on hold for my brother to be put on hold for me so I can rent them right now."

My colleague scanned the videos' barcodes.

"There's a list of people waiting for these videos. If I cancel the hold for your brother, the computer transfers the videos' hold to the next person in line. There are 4 people ahead of you. But, if you have the notice letter from the library, and your brother’s card, you can pick them up for him. Wait, didn’t someone already talk to you this morning about this?"

His eyes shifted back and forth. "That was my brother - my TWIN brother. That was NOT me. We do live in the same place."

My colleague looked at him quizzically. “As in, we have the same address.” He rolled his eyes heavenward in this exaggerated, slow, 'My God you try my patience' way.

"I see your card - I mean your twin brother's card - is too delinquent to check out the videos."

It was obvious that he had defrauded the system into getting two cards, but couldn't use the one that he had reserved the videos under of because of its excessive fines. He wanted to videos badly enough to alert us. I had to admire the brazen way he was trying to conduct his little trashy con.

“It don't matter anyway! My brother's incarcerated. There's no way he come and pick them up. He'll be incarcerated for at least two weeks. I cain’t get his card, so put them on my card! How damn hard is that?"

"As I said, I can't transfer the holds to your card. The computer will automatically go down the list to the next person. There are four people ahead of you."

He finally gave up. "Ah, nevermind. These videos suck anyway." He walked up to his female companion, jerked her arm and pulled her out of the library.

Y'all Are Brutalizing Me!

I got a little homesick for Alabama today when an exquisite example of a dirtball - the Platonic Ideal, really - stomped up to the desk. He had a canary yellow dyed mullet and his belly was poking out of his cut off tank top like a child's. His woman, cowed, pale and skinny, waited silently about ten feet behind him. Her eyes were cast downward.

"I need these here videos," slapping some Creepshow videos on the counter, "that are on hold for my brother to be put on hold for me so I can rent them right now."

My colleague scanned the videos' barcodes.

"There's a list of people waiting for these videos. If I cancel the hold for your brother, the computer transfers the videos' hold to the next person in line. There are 4 people ahead of you. But, if you have the notice letter from the library, and your brother’s card, you can pick them up for him. Wait, didn’t someone already talk to you this morning about this?"

His eyes shifted back and forth. "That was my brother - my TWIN brother. That was NOT me. We do live in the same place."

My colleague looked at him quizzically. “As in, we have the same address.” He rolled his eyes heavenward in this exaggerated, slow, 'My God you try my patience' way.

"I see your card - I mean your twin brother's card - is too delinquent to check out the videos."

It was obvious that he had defrauded the system into getting two cards, but couldn't use the one that he had reserved the videos under of because of its excessive fines. He wanted to videos badly enough to alert us. I had to admire the brazen way he was trying to conduct his little trashy con.

“It don't matter anyway! My brother's incarcerated. There's no way he come and pick them up. He'll be incarcerated for at least two weeks. I cain’t get his card, so put them on my card! How damn hard is that?"

"As I said, I can't transfer the holds to your card. The computer will automatically go down the list to the next person. There are four people ahead of you."

He finally gave up. "Ah, nevermind. These videos suck anyway." He walked up to his female companion, jerked her arm and pulled her out of the library.

Mosquito Coast

Back in Tennesse on E's family farm we were tormented into the night by the tiny buzzsaw whine of a mosquito. I was up reading when I finally spotted it hovering by the wall. Bloated and weighed down from feeding on us all, the mosquito had become careless as it lazily made its way to the next blood source. I took my book and smashed it against the wall, leaving a silver dollar size blood stain.

I'm usually terribly squeamish and reluctant to kill any creature but whenever I destroy a mosquito I think of the scene in Mosquito Coast. Some camoflauged soldiers, three menacing deserters, actually, each armed with machine guns, have demanded hospitality from the character Allie Fox (played by Harrison Ford) and his family in the middle of the jungles of Central America. The men get increasingly drunk and begin eyeing the women in the family with evil intent. Fox locks them in their ice house and poisons them with ammonium hydroxide.

As Fox and his young son are crouched in the bushes, listening to the men die, he tells his son, "Don't pity those men, Charlie. I gave them plenty of opportunity to leave." He then slaps his own neck, killing a mosquito, and shows his son his bloodstained hand. "Don't pity this insect. That's not his blood. That's my blood."

Mosquito Coast

Back in Tennesse on E's family farm we were tormented into the night by the tiny buzzsaw whine of a mosquito. I was up reading when I finally spotted it hovering by the wall. Bloated and weighed down from feeding on us all, the mosquito had become careless as it lazily made its way to the next blood source. I took my book and smashed it against the wall, leaving a silver dollar size blood stain.

I'm usually terribly squeamish and reluctant to kill any creature but whenever I destroy a mosquito I think of the scene in Mosquito Coast. Some camoflauged soldiers, three menacing deserters, actually, each armed with machine guns, have demanded hospitality from the character Allie Fox (played by Harrison Ford) and his family in the middle of the jungles of Central America. The men get increasingly drunk and begin eyeing the women in the family with evil intent. Fox locks them in their ice house and poisons them with ammonium hydroxide.

As Fox and his young son are crouched in the bushes, listening to the men die, he tells his son, "Don't pity those men, Charlie. I gave them plenty of opportunity to leave." He then slaps his own neck, killing a mosquito, and shows his son his bloodstained hand. "Don't pity this insect. That's not his blood. That's my blood."

Eminent Maricones

I have known from the South.

Dickie's mother suspected he was gay when he showed zero interest in Tonka trucks and began vacuuming the house at the age of four. He had taken complete control of the house’s decoration by age twelve, which his mother, a distracted socialite always late to some charity committee meeting, was more than happy to concede to him. He would while away most afternoons of his boyhood polishing the family silver, dusting antiques and gossiping in the kitchen with the African American maid, Pearline. When his mother reupholstered a chair in a color not to his liking he had a full scale tantrum and refused to speak to her for a week. He then crept down to the living room in the middle of the night and pulled out all of the offending upholstery's tacks. His mother sighed and started giving him a budget for redecoration projects. He was ten years old.

One time a mutual friend told me about a telephone conversation he had had with Dickie. He was in the middle of telling Dickie a story when he was interrupted by Dickie commanding, “Don’t put that there!” “Put what where?” “Oh, nothing. I wasn’t talking to you. MY MOTHER" - obviously talking to her - "was trying to put a vase where it doesn’t belong.” In high school, while the rest of his friends traveled to the beach, he spent his spring break stripping and exquisitely and meticulously refinishing the back stairs.

His family's exalted social position afforded him complete protection, and he lived in New Orleans, a city that appreciated cultured 'eccentrics.' He was wildly popular with his girl classmates because he knew how to dance, was witty in a cruel, catty way and of course could be trusted never to lay a hand on them. Dickie was a highly sought escort for debutante balls.

Eminent Maricones

I have known from the South.

Dickie's mother suspected he was gay when he showed zero interest in Tonka trucks and began vacuuming the house at the age of four. He had taken complete control of the house’s decoration by age twelve, which his mother, a distracted socialite always late to some charity committee meeting, was more than happy to concede to him. He would while away most afternoons of his boyhood polishing the family silver, dusting antiques and gossiping in the kitchen with the African American maid, Pearline. When his mother reupholstered a chair in a color not to his liking he had a full scale tantrum and refused to speak to her for a week. He then crept down to the living room in the middle of the night and pulled out all of the offending upholstery's tacks. His mother sighed and started giving him a budget for redecoration projects. He was ten years old.

One time a mutual friend told me about a telephone conversation he had had with Dickie. He was in the middle of telling Dickie a story when he was interrupted by Dickie commanding, “Don’t put that there!” “Put what where?” “Oh, nothing. I wasn’t talking to you. MY MOTHER" - obviously talking to her - "was trying to put a vase where it doesn’t belong.” In high school, while the rest of his friends traveled to the beach, he spent his spring break stripping and exquisitely and meticulously refinishing the back stairs.

His family's exalted social position afforded him complete protection, and he lived in New Orleans, a city that appreciated cultured 'eccentrics.' He was wildly popular with his girl classmates because he knew how to dance, was witty in a cruel, catty way and of course could be trusted never to lay a hand on them. Dickie was a highly sought escort for debutante balls.

Tennessee Jed

I apologize for the lack of posts, but I'm back in Tennessee for my little brother's graduation. The post is being written on the fly, with an erratic dial-up connection, and not my usualy crutches like spell check, so please excuse its disjointed quality.

German Folly

If you're like me, there's nothing more enjoyable than watching an idealistic German director slowly go insane in the Amazon jungle, Kurtz style. So I wonder what it is that took me so long to see The Burden of Dreams, a documentary about the making of Fitzcarraldo, Werner Herzog's snake-bit film about an obsessed Irishman trying to build a glass opera house in the middle of the jungle to entice his idol, Enrico Caruso, to come perform.

The whole endeavor sounded very similar to Coppola's Apocalypse Now experience, and was fraught with disaster from the beginning. Problems included including warring, arrow shooting native extras, grotesque tropical diseases and parasites, mutinous German crews, grandiose and impossibly ambitious goals like dragging a 50 ton boat over a hill in the sucking jungle mud to prove some sort of artistic point.

The situation is unmanageable almost from the beginning, and when Herzog moves the crew to the middle of the jungle and keeps them there indefinitely (for over a year!) waiting for the right conditions to film he begins to lose it. One memorable scene has an exhausted Herzog addressing the documentary film maker's camera about his opinion of the jungle. Imagine this delivered in the same flat, Teutonic tones as Rainier Wolfcastle or Arnold S.

"If it was made by a God, if there is a god, then it was an angry God...
Kinski says the jungle is full of erotic elements. It’s not so much erotic, but full of obscenity. Nature here is vile and base. I wouldn’t see anything erotic here. I see fornication and asphyxiation and choking, fighting for survival and growing and just rotting away. Of course there’s a lot of misery, but it’s the same misery that’s all around us. The trees are in misery, and the birds are in misery. I don’t think they sing; they just screech in pain. Taking a close look at what’s around us, there is some sort of harmony. It’s the harmony of overwhelming and collective murder. But when I say this, I say this all full of admiration for the jungle. It’s not that I hate it. I love it. I love it very much. But I love it against my better judgment.”

Great stuff! Only a German could morbidly wax with this poetically. I can't wait to move on to more of his oeuvre.

Tennessee Jed

I apologize for the lack of posts, but I'm back in Tennessee for my little brother's graduation. The post is being written on the fly, with an erratic dial-up connection, and not my usualy crutches like spell check, so please excuse its disjointed quality.

German Folly

If you're like me, there's nothing more enjoyable than watching an idealistic German director slowly go insane in the Amazon jungle, Kurtz style. So I wonder what it is that took me so long to see The Burden of Dreams, a documentary about the making of Fitzcarraldo, Werner Herzog's snake-bit film about an obsessed Irishman trying to build a glass opera house in the middle of the jungle to entice his idol, Enrico Caruso, to come perform.

The whole endeavor sounded very similar to Coppola's Apocalypse Now experience, and was fraught with disaster from the beginning. Problems included including warring, arrow shooting native extras, grotesque tropical diseases and parasites, mutinous German crews, grandiose and impossibly ambitious goals like dragging a 50 ton boat over a hill in the sucking jungle mud to prove some sort of artistic point.

The situation is unmanageable almost from the beginning, and when Herzog moves the crew to the middle of the jungle and keeps them there indefinitely (for over a year!) waiting for the right conditions to film he begins to lose it. One memorable scene has an exhausted Herzog addressing the documentary film maker's camera about his opinion of the jungle. Imagine this delivered in the same flat, Teutonic tones as Rainier Wolfcastle or Arnold S.

"If it was made by a God, if there is a god, then it was an angry God...
Kinski says the jungle is full of erotic elements. It’s not so much erotic, but full of obscenity. Nature here is vile and base. I wouldn’t see anything erotic here. I see fornication and asphyxiation and choking, fighting for survival and growing and just rotting away. Of course there’s a lot of misery, but it’s the same misery that’s all around us. The trees are in misery, and the birds are in misery. I don’t think they sing; they just screech in pain. Taking a close look at what’s around us, there is some sort of harmony. It’s the harmony of overwhelming and collective murder. But when I say this, I say this all full of admiration for the jungle. It’s not that I hate it. I love it. I love it very much. But I love it against my better judgment.”

Great stuff! Only a German could morbidly wax with this poetically. I can't wait to move on to more of his oeuvre.

French Citizens React to the Widespread Use of the Word "Le Weekend"

Or maybe that's when Hitler is marching through. I can never remember. The other day I heard a colleague speaking softly into the phone. Although his voice was very low, I detected the words “hoe,” “bitch,” and “pimp.”

He saw my eyes widen. When he finished the call he explained that the sweetest old lady had asked him to read the lyrics for the Academy Award winning song, “It’s Hard out Here for a Pimp.” He warned her that its lyrics were explicit, but she said that she didn't care, and that he was to read every word to her. I wonder if it’s the same patron I get occasionally who likes for me to read the definitions of various neologisms and slang words to her. Her curiosity and appreciation for the words are really delightful, and I always have a lot of fun answering her questions, and with the discussions that often result. On one phone call she asked me to define:

Jarhead: Slang for a Marine, stemming from when the Mason Jar company got the government contract to make helmets in WWII.

Bling bling: Flashy jewelry. “ I love this word’s onomatopoeic quality.” “It’s like you can just hear the ropes of precious metal striking against each other and see them glint in the sun!”

Bootylicious: A portmanteau of booty (buttocks) and delicious and it means having strong sexual appeal. Another descriptive, rich word, if kind of vulgar.

While I described the meaning of the word "bootylicious" we both began giggling like school girls. “Well, I like to keep up with new words, so every time I hear one I like to keep a list and then call you all. Keeps me spry.”

I love clever slang, and marvel and appreciate how English absorbs and assimilates homegrown slang and neologisms, as well as words and phrases from around the world. I'm glad we don't have our version of the Acadamie Francaise, and that we welcome all of these verbal immigrants. In fact, screw the Acadamie Francaise, which is as flimsy and ineffective as the Maginot Line. It’s folly to try to block off a language, which should be organic, dynamic and constantly evolving. New words introduce new concepts, and invigorate a society. I don’t want to get into wooly linguistic theory, because I would soon be talking out of my hat, but it’s theorized that limitations of language can actually affect a person’s reality and thought processes. Having a word for something can actually bring the concept into reality, which is why the totalitarian state of 1984 was pushing Newspeak so hard. If there were no words for democracy or freedom or rebellion, then people wouldn’t be able to imagine the concepts or act upon them. If the totalitarian state achieved authority over language, it would obtain ultimate control over everything, including one’s thoughts.

As philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein's said, "The limits of my language mean the limits to my world."

I have been reading a wonderful book called They Have a Word for It, which contains all of these wonderful words and phrases from languages around the world. They are often reflective of the culture from where they originate, sometimes hilariously so, and would be incredibly enriching if they became part of the English lexicon. I welcome these verbal immigrants!

Tingo - (Pascurnse, Easter Island) – outrageous, insensitive borrowing of objects,

Hakamaroo,= (Pascurnse, Easter Island) Tingo's sister word, and it means to hold onto borrowed objects until the lender has to ask them for it back. Passive aggression at its finest! Homer Simpson is always pulling this with Ned and his yard and power tools. In fact, Flanders walks next door one day and discovers Homer trying to sell a bunch of his borrowed tools in a garage sale.

Anga anga – (Pascurnse, Easter Island) A thought, perhaps groundless, that one is being gossiped about.

Sounds like people got on each other's nerves and in their business on that isolated island community.

Fisselig – (German) Flustered to the point of incompetence, as in when someone is standing over one's shoulder.

Holopsis kuntul baris (Indonesian) A phrase uttered in order to gain extra strength when carrying heavy objects

Fusto - (Italian) – A man who likes to flex his muscles and dress provocatively, like a speedo with lots of gold jewelry at the beach.

Drachenfutter - (German) Literally, dragon's food, it's a gift peace offering guilty husbands bring their wives, say, after a night out drinking.

Attaccabottoni - (Italian) A bore who corners people and tells sad, pointless tales. Someone who buttonholes you.

Kyoikumama - (Japanese) Mother who pushes and drives her children into academic achievement. As pejorative a term as stage mother.

Epater les bourgeois -(French) To shock people deliberately who have conventional values

Mokita – (Kiriwina, New Guinea) Obvious truth everyone knows but doesn’t speak of. (Elephant in the room)

Aware (Japanese) Feelings engendered by ephemeral beauty (The example the book uses is the poignant feelings that arise as one sees a cherry blossom float to the ground)

Radfahrer - (German) One who flatters superiors and browbeats subordinates.

Faux frais -(French) Items you are likely to forget to include when making a budget.

Razbliuto (Russian) - The bittersweet feeling a person has for someone he or she once loved but now does not.

There's a new book out, The Meaning of Tingo and other Extraordinary Words from Around the World, that covers similar territory.

French Citizens React to the Widespread Use of the Word "Le Weekend"

Or maybe that's when Hitler is marching through. I can never remember. The other day I heard a colleague speaking softly into the phone. Although his voice was very low, I detected the words “hoe,” “bitch,” and “pimp.”

He saw my eyes widen. When he finished the call he explained that the sweetest old lady had asked him to read the lyrics for the Academy Award winning song, “It’s Hard out Here for a Pimp.” He warned her that its lyrics were explicit, but she said that she didn't care, and that he was to read every word to her. I wonder if it’s the same patron I get occasionally who likes for me to read the definitions of various neologisms and slang words to her. Her curiosity and appreciation for the words are really delightful, and I always have a lot of fun answering her questions, and with the discussions that often result. On one phone call she asked me to define:

Jarhead: Slang for a Marine, stemming from when the Mason Jar company got the government contract to make helmets in WWII.

Bling bling: Flashy jewelry. “ I love this word’s onomatopoeic quality.” “It’s like you can just hear the ropes of precious metal striking against each other and see them glint in the sun!”

Bootylicious: A portmanteau of booty (buttocks) and delicious and it means having strong sexual appeal. Another descriptive, rich word, if kind of vulgar.

While I described the meaning of the word "bootylicious" we both began giggling like school girls. “Well, I like to keep up with new words, so every time I hear one I like to keep a list and then call you all. Keeps me spry.”

I love clever slang, and marvel and appreciate how English absorbs and assimilates homegrown slang and neologisms, as well as words and phrases from around the world. I'm glad we don't have our version of the Acadamie Francaise, and that we welcome all of these verbal immigrants. In fact, screw the Acadamie Francaise, which is as flimsy and ineffective as the Maginot Line. It’s folly to try to block off a language, which should be organic, dynamic and constantly evolving. New words introduce new concepts, and invigorate a society. I don’t want to get into wooly linguistic theory, because I would soon be talking out of my hat, but it’s theorized that limitations of language can actually affect a person’s reality and thought processes. Having a word for something can actually bring the concept into reality, which is why the totalitarian state of 1984 was pushing Newspeak so hard. If there were no words for democracy or freedom or rebellion, then people wouldn’t be able to imagine the concepts or act upon them. If the totalitarian state achieved authority over language, it would obtain ultimate control over everything, including one’s thoughts.

As philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein's said, "The limits of my language mean the limits to my world."

I have been reading a wonderful book called They Have a Word for It, which contains all of these wonderful words and phrases from languages around the world. They are often reflective of the culture from where they originate, sometimes hilariously so, and would be incredibly enriching if they became part of the English lexicon. I welcome these verbal immigrants!

Tingo - (Pascurnse, Easter Island) – outrageous, insensitive borrowing of objects,

Hakamaroo,= (Pascurnse, Easter Island) Tingo's sister word, and it means to hold onto borrowed objects until the lender has to ask them for it back. Passive aggression at its finest! Homer Simpson is always pulling this with Ned and his yard and power tools. In fact, Flanders walks next door one day and discovers Homer trying to sell a bunch of his borrowed tools in a garage sale.

Anga anga – (Pascurnse, Easter Island) A thought, perhaps groundless, that one is being gossiped about.

Sounds like people got on each other's nerves and in their business on that isolated island community.

Fisselig – (German) Flustered to the point of incompetence, as in when someone is standing over one's shoulder.

Holopsis kuntul baris (Indonesian) A phrase uttered in order to gain extra strength when carrying heavy objects

Fusto - (Italian) – A man who likes to flex his muscles and dress provocatively, like a speedo with lots of gold jewelry at the beach.

Drachenfutter - (German) Literally, dragon's food, it's a gift peace offering guilty husbands bring their wives, say, after a night out drinking.

Attaccabottoni - (Italian) A bore who corners people and tells sad, pointless tales. Someone who buttonholes you.

Kyoikumama - (Japanese) Mother who pushes and drives her children into academic achievement. As pejorative a term as stage mother.

Epater les bourgeois -(French) To shock people deliberately who have conventional values

Mokita – (Kiriwina, New Guinea) Obvious truth everyone knows but doesn’t speak of. (Elephant in the room)

Aware (Japanese) Feelings engendered by ephemeral beauty (The example the book uses is the poignant feelings that arise as one sees a cherry blossom float to the ground)

Radfahrer - (German) One who flatters superiors and browbeats subordinates.

Faux frais -(French) Items you are likely to forget to include when making a budget.

Razbliuto (Russian) - The bittersweet feeling a person has for someone he or she once loved but now does not.

There's a new book out, The Meaning of Tingo and other Extraordinary Words from Around the World, that covers similar territory.